


Up on the House Top

by VividEscapist



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Christmas, Comedy, Family, Fluff, ForeverHolidays2015, Friendship, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Hypothermia, Lucas is mentioned a tiny bit as well, Post-Series, don't worry the character death isn't permanent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VividEscapist/pseuds/VividEscapist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City has a Christmas-themed serial killer. Henry is a snowman, then a ghost. Jo is a little concerned about Henry's ideas. Abe makes hot chocolate. Hanson just wants this entire mess to be over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up on the House Top

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkWolfMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWolfMoon/gifts).



> This takes place post-series, with the assumption that Henry told Jo he was immortal after the last episode. 
> 
> Written as a gift for the Holiday Exchange ficathon! The prompt is posted at the end. I hope I have done it some justice!

All things considered, today had been a very _interesting_ one for Henry. He had never been a snowman before, and wasn’t Abe always telling him to try new things? Well… _inside_ a snowman. As in, he was tied up, immobilized, and buried in snow in a shape he could only assume was a snowman because the maniac who put him here had said so. And he could feel the pressure of carrot against his nose.

Henry tried wriggling again, but to no avail. Whatever material was keeping his hands together—it felt suspiciously like a wreath—wasn’t budging. His feet weren’t much better. Henry was not actually sure if they were tied together, but between the snow they were submerged in, and Henry’s rapid loss of feeling, those limbs weren’t going anywhere either.

It was then, that Henry accepted the annoying reality that he was going to die. Even more annoying was the fact that as soon as he got out of this mess, Henry was going to owe Abe ten dollars because his son decided it would be fun to bet him on how long he could go before ending up in the East River. He had been making such a good effort, too. The money was of no concern, but he resented the smug look on Abe’s face every time he insisted that two hundred years at utterly evaporated Henry’s self-preservation.

Okay, maybe those instincts had been eroded a little. (Jo seemed to think so, anyway.) But if he was already immortal, why put so much effort into staying alive? Dying still wasn’t pleasant, of course, but in the summertime when the river wasn’t bitter cold, Henry at least didn’t mind it so much. If someone had to jump in front of a moving car to stall a suspect, or take a few bullets, better him than someone else.

The tingling in Henry’s extremities began to subside. He knew from experience of freezing to death that that was technically a _bad_ thing, but at this point, it just brought him closer to an escape. He squeezed his eyes tighter. His hearing was mostly blocked, but he could still make out the wind howling above him. With weather conditions as they were—and the fact that he was completely encased in snow—Henry couldn’t be expected to last two hours before death. Even less before unconsciousness.

With nothing else to do besides _wait,_ Henry found himself humming _Frosty the Snowman._ His memory of how he’d ended up in this situation was blurry—blunt-force trauma will do that to you—but amidst the mental confusion, he could recall that song. It was entirely likely his assailant had been singing it while he buried Henry. The man had mentioned snowmen, in any case. Despite his lingering bitterness about being murdered, again, Henry could appreciate the creative flare.

The pattern had started up three weeks ago. No one had been thrilled about being gifted a serial killer so close to Christmas, but the connection was indisputable. The first victim was an elderly woman with several grandchildren—a fact which became quite relevant when Henry determined her cause of death as “trampled by deer.” Lucas had joked about the circumstances for days, humming _Grandma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer_ between every autopsy. (Henry had never heard of the song before, and he rather wished it had remained elusive.)

The jokes didn’t last long. Lucas’ insane conspiracies had a way of coming true, and when a man named Rudolph was found murdered with antler ears stuck to his skull and his nose colored red with blood, Henry deemed it to be a serial killer.

The strangest serial killer he had ever seen. And _that_ was saying something.

The bodies continued. One man was thrown off a roof with a Santa hat stuck to his head. Another victim—appropriately named “Jack”—was found frozen solid in a dumpster. Henry was too busy with the volume of corpses to venture out with Jo much, but the last he’d heard, she and Hanson had been tracking a possible connection between the victims and a certain department store.

Henry had gone home for the night. Or…tried to. He didn’t remember how far he’d gotten. He didn’t think he’d actually made it there—a theory well-supported by his current predicament. But the interim between then and now was mostly a hole in his memory. The aching in his head when he’d first regained lucidity indicated he’d been hit, and he could almost recall glimpses of being dragged…

The longer he stood a popsicle, the vaguer everything became. Whether that was due to the head wound, or amnesia resulting from his definite hypothermia…Henry lost his train of thought. He realized he had ceased humming a while ago—probably due to his lips being frozen together. He couldn’t move any part of his body. Everything felt so far away…

Henry swore he could hear the melody of Lucas’ obnoxious reindeer song, cutting through the muddle in his brain. But that couldn’t be right. Even if Lucas were standing right outside his snow prison…was Lucas there? Did he find him? That seemed improbable but Henry couldn’t remember why. He struggled to say his Lucas’ name—to say anything—but his mouth wouldn’t move.

A car alarm sounded in the distance, and the song ended as abruptly as it had started. Henry mourned its passing. The song itself _was_ annoying, but it was better than that monotone buzzing in his ears.

Abe would be expecting him home soon. _Why wasn’t he at home?_

Something about a snowman.

Henry felt the strain of sleep tugging at him. His eyes were already closed; he might as well sleep. He could deal with that buzzing after he woke up. And something about owing Abraham ten dollars…

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

“You make sure you drink that entire mug, Henry. You still look like death warmed over.”

“Well, it wasn’t very _warm,_ ” Henry mumbled. He shivered, despite the two jumpers and the quilt draped over his shoulders. He pressed his hands on either side of the hot chocolate Abe had given him.

“No kidding. You’re lucky the clothes you stashed last time were still there, or you’d probably have died again by the time I found you.” Abe turned back to the stove to stir the pot of hot chocolate. “I still can’t get this recipe right. Does it need more cinnamon?”

Henry sipped his mug. His taste buds were still in the process of thawing, but it seemed normal. “Same as always.”

“Yes, that’s the point. I am trying to _improve,_ Henry.” Abe used a spoon to sample the pot. “Definitely more cinnamon. Something else too…”

The phone rang. Henry shrugged off the quilt and walked across the kitchen to answer.

“Hel—” he cut himself off with a cough. “Excuse me. Hello?”

“Henry? You okay?”

“…that’s debatable.”

Abe quirked an eyebrow in question.

Henry mouthed back ‘Jo’ before returning his attention to the phone. “Has there been some development?”

“You could say that. One of the store employees that we were looking at is in the interrogation room right now. Scott Calvin. Hanson’s talking to him. He’s a total whack-job—keeps insisting that he had to act in “the soul of Christmas” or something. He hasn’t actually _admitted_ to anything outright, but he says he won’t talk without immunity.”

“Oh, is that all?” Henry said wryly. “Why does he think you’ll give him that?”

“ _Well,_ ” Jo drawled. “I think you might know.”

Henry could hear her smirking through the line. “Is he, by chance, claiming to have a member of the police department held hostage inside a snowman?”

Abe spun around. “A _snowman?_ ”

Henry held his hand over the phone receiver. “It’s a long story.”

“Mhmm. You still owe me ten bucks.”

“Henry? You still there?” Jo asked.

Henry put the phone back to his ear. “He has a terrible estimation of how long it takes a person to freeze to death. I died over an hour ago.”

“I really hate that sentences like that have become normal with you,” Jo muttered. “Anyway, the guy’s completely nuts—keeps insisting we call him _Saint Nick_ —so no one is really taking the hostage threat seriously.”

“He masterminded the death of at least four people. It _should_ be taken seriously.” Henry said.

“‘Masterminded’ is a bit of a stretch. But I know. That’s why I was going to check and see if any members of the department were missing. But since I called you first, that’s clearly not an issue.”

Henry leaned to check the clock on the stove—8:23pm. “Calvin might not think I’ve died yet, but in another hour or so he’ll have to assume as much.” He paused. “I could show up then and startle him into a confession.”

“Or, we could just bring you in and say we found you without his help. Get rid of his leverage—the leverage he _thinks_ he has. Offer him a deal.”

Henry considered this. It _might_ work, but more likely, without anything going for him, the man would just refuse to talk. And without any concrete evidence to hold him…

“I have a better idea,” he said. “And before you say no—”

“I dislike the sound of this already.”

“On a scale of one to ten, about how obsessed is Calvin with this “soul of Christmas” madness?”

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

The first thing that greeted Henry when he entered the precinct was Jo’s exasperation. “Where did you even _find_ that thing?” She pointed to Henry’s villainous garb—a loose-fitting black cloak with a hood.

 “There are a lot stranger things in my lab.”

 “This is crazy.”

“So is our suspect. It’ll work,” Henry insisted.

“He was still sane enough to incapacitate _you_ and stick your body in a snowbank—”

“—snow _man._ ”

“There’s no way he’s going to fall for this.”

“What is ‘this?’”

Henry looked up to see Hanson, joining them from the other side of the bullpen.

“Our plan.” Henry blinked at Jo. “You didn’t tell him?”

“I was going to as soon as he came out of the interrogation room,” Jo said. “Which is now.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Doc,” Hanson stopped next to Jo’s desk, giving Henry a critical once-over, “why exactly are you dressed like the Grim Reaper?”

“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” Henry stated simply. He tugged on the hood for emphasis.

“Oh, right, of course. My bad. _Why?_ ”

Henry glanced at Jo.

She shrugged quite unhelpfully. “Your plan. You explain.”

Henry puzzled over his next words. Obviously he had to tell Hanson _something,_ about his frosty demise, but he also had to somehow avoid mentioning the actual dying part. Jo had known his secret long enough now that he’d almost forgotten the difficulty of keeping his immortality concealed in cases like this.

“Today, maybe, Henry?” Hanson leaned against the desk.

“Right. Calvin is claiming to have someone held hostage. Their location for immunity?”

“He was,” Hanson said. “He says it’s too late now. Forgive me for being a little skeptical, what with the guy being clearly _insane_ …”

“He thinks he killed me.”

Hanson’s mouth performed a very accurate rendition of a goldfish. “…ohhhkay. Why?”

“He…followed me after work. Hit me on the head with something, then tried to bury me in snow. I was able to escape without him noticing. I think he assumed I was already buried and just kept piling on more snow.”

“You’re just mentioning this _now?_ ”

“I told Jo when she called,” Henry said defensively. “I was a little out of it before. Fine now.”

“Right. That’s why you’re dressed like a Dickens character.”

“That’s part of the plan,” Henry said. “I’m going to pretend to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and convince Calvin to confess to the murders.”

“You really think that will work.” It was more or less a question.

Henry nodded. “If he’s superstitious enough.”

“Crazy enough,” Jo corrected.

“That too.”

 Hanson stared at the two of them for a long time. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, but if it wraps this up early enough for me to get to the store, I don’t care. Karen needs me to pick up stuff for the boys and Christmas is in two days.”

“Cutting it a little close there,” Jo chided.

Hanson rolled his eyes. “I didn’t expect to have to deal with,” he pointed back to the interrogation rooms, “Santa’s evil twin in there.” He studied Henry. “Are you sure you can pull this off, Doc?”

Henry grinned. “Believe it or not, this is not my first Dickens performance.”

“What, high school? I didn’t peg you for a theatre kid.”

Henry shrugged. “Something like that.” He wasn’t going to mention having met the author himself.

“Alright, Henry,” Jo nudged him forward. “Now or never. I’ll deal with the lights.”

Hanson groaned. “I can’t watch this.”

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

The room was dark when Henry entered. Scott Calvin had his head resting on the table. He didn’t look up when the door closed.

“Your light fixtures are broken, Detective.”

Henry wasn’t sure exactly how this ghost was supposed to sound—it never spoke in the novel—but he supposed his accent would be beneficial for the situation. He lowered his voice slightly, and said, “I’m not the Detective.”

Calvin lifted his head. He jumped when he saw Henry. “Who…”

“I think you know who I am. And I know what you’ve been doing.”

Calvin shook his head. “No. It—it can’t be,” he said, voice shaking.

“You have to confess if you want to be atoned. Otherwise—” Henry didn’t know what he was planning to say next, but the suspect saved him the trouble by interrupting.

“But I had to do it! I was honoring the true soul of Christmas! It’s turned into a glorification of indulgence and commercialism and…gluttony! I see it every year. People come into the store, too concerned with themselves and the money they’re spending to care about the ones working there, like me. They deserved to die like that.”

Henry had to disagree with that, but he refrained from saying so. He pulled his hood back slightly, revealing his face.

“Wait, you’re…but that’s impossible! You’re dead!”

“Maybe. Or was I ever actually alive? Was I watching you all this time?”

“But…you…I still had to do it. It was meant to be, and no one else was going to fulfill that need.”

“You are free to make your own decisions. I’m only here to warn you. I know what will happen, and if you don’t confess…”

Calvin audibly swallowed. The self-assurance from moments ago was rapidly dissipating. “Yeah?”

“You won’t be pleased with what the future holds.” Henry was glad Lucas had gone home hours ago. He would’ve been entirely to engrossed in this.

Calvin started tapping his fingers on the table, nervously. “And if I tell them? I’ll be okay? But won’t I be in jail?”

“There are worse things. Events you don’t want to know about.”

“…okay. Okay. I’ll do it. I…” Calvin peered around Henry at the two-way mirror. “I did it, okay! I killed those people! Come in here! I’ll write it down—whatever you want!” Calvin looked back at Henry.

“Is that good? Will my future be better now?”

Henry didn’t respond. He walked towards the exit.

“Wait! You have to tell me! Will I—”

Calvin’s shouting was silenced as Henry closed the door. He slipped the cloak off, hanging it over one arm.

A few moments later, Jo and Hanson came out of the observation room.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Hanson said.

“Yeah, Henry, not bad.” Jo smiled. “You should try acting in your spare time.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Hanson sighed. “I better get in there before he starts screaming his head off. I want his confession on paper before he changes his mind.” He stepped into the interrogation room.

Henry and Jo started back across the bullpen.

“That theatre experience you mentioned…which century was this?”

“The twentieth. Paris.”

“ _Paris?"_

“The 1920s were an interesting time.”

“And wha—” Jo’s cellphone rang. “One second…hello?” Jo listened for a moment before handing the phone to Henry. “It’s your kid.”

Henry took it quickly. “Abraham? Is everything alright?”

“Henry! I figured it out! The perfect batch. I used some of those Belgian chocolate chips you had buried in the cupboard—hope you don’t mind, by the way—and some nutmeg—”

“Wait, Abraham, are you just calling to tell me you made more hot chocolate?”

Jo stifled a laugh.

“Of course not. I’m calling to tell you that I’ve made way too much hot chocolate, and if we don’t drink it tonight it’ll get stale. So bring Jo home.”

“I—” Henry heard the line click. Sighing, he handed Jo her back her phone. “I’ve been instructed to bring you back for Abe’s homemade hot chocolate. If you’re interested.”

Jo smiled. “I’d love to. I can never turn down Abe’s cooking—or, liquid making.” She picked up a handful of files from her desk. “And you can help me figure out what I’m going to put in this report for Lieu. Somehow I don’t think ‘Henry died and then convinced the suspect he was a ghost for a confession’ is going to cut it.”

“We’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cookie for you if you recognize where I got the murderer's name. Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year!
> 
> Prompt: Set after the series, Jo and Henry get a case that involves several strange holiday related deaths (like grandma got run over with a reindeer or Jack Frost, a guy named Jack found frozen solid). Feel free to include a lot of bad Christmas puns related to the deaths. Then have Henry targeted by the person committing the murders, however in such a way that Henry doesn't immediately know the murderer and the murderer doesn't know that his traps have actually killed Henry, but he came back to life."


End file.
